Mine
by Fae2135
Summary: In the novel, we only get Fiyero's perspective on his and Elphaba's relationship.  Hence the inspiration for this piece, Elphaba and Fiyero's first night as lovers in the Emerald City from Elphaba's point of view.  Oneshot.  Bookverse.  Elphiyero.


**A/N: I've been going crazy with the need to write Elphiyero fluff. Enough said.**

**All the dialogue and some of the actions at the beginning (and one line towards the end) were shamelessly lifted directly from the novel. Several lines were also taken directly from ALAYM from the musical.**

**Disclaimer: We all know who owns Wicked, and we all know it isn't me.**

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"I am married, just not to a man."

The instant the sentence leaves my mouth, I can hardly believe I've said it. I didn't mean it the way it sounded, and I think Fiyero knows that, but I quickly bury my face in my hands to hide the flush of embarrassment that I know has stolen into my cheeks. I have startled myself with my own words, which is a rare occurrence in and of itself, and what's worse, I worry that I have given him a wrong idea about myself. Ordinarily I care nothing for what anyone else thinks of me. But for some strange reason, I discover that his opinion of me matters far more than I care to admit, even to myself. And before I can even wonder why I care so much that he may have gotten a very wrong impression, I find to my utter and unspeakable dismay that my eyes are welling with tears.

Furious at myself for not being able to contain my emotions, I jump up and snatch an old blanket to wipe away the traitorous drops of water before they have a chance to spill over and burn my skin. I move away from him, leaning heavily on the counter as I use the fabric of the blanket to catch my tears before they can fall. My sudden display of emotion has frightened him, I know, and I'm sure he thinks it's his fault, but at the moment I am powerless to reassure him otherwise.

"Elphie," he calls me, his voice full of tenderness and concern, "Elphie…" Before I can respond, he is there beside me, drawing me into his arms. I am still clutching the blanket in my hand, and it hangs between us all the way to the floor, but it is doing nothing to stop the thoughts that are flitting unbidden into my head at the feeling of my body pressed so closely against his. I can't think such things about him, I try frantically to tell myself. I mustn't, it isn't allowed, he has a wife, and children, and… and… when did those blue diamonds of his become so beautiful? Thanks to his open collar, I can see that the pattern of the tattoos continues unbroken down his face and neck to disappear beneath the fabric of his shirt, and I am struck by a strange and fervent compulsion to trace their outlines, my lips following the trail my fingers leave. Suddenly I want very much to pull off his shirt (and perhaps some other articles of his clothing as well) and find out just how far down his body those diamonds actually go…

These thoughts leave me inexplicably terrified. I've never felt such things for anyone before; the implication of it all makes me tremble. How is it possible that he can awaken these feelings in me with nothing more than a simple embrace?

Or is it possible that the feelings have been there all along, and I was simply too blind to notice them until he came crashing back into my life to open my eyes?

I have always been careful to keep myself as emotionless as possible. With the life I've lived, that is the only way I have managed to survive. But the strength and depth of what I am feeling now startles and nearly overwhelms me. In one last, desperate attempt to keep from drowning beneath the flood of it, I try to tear myself away from him. "No," I choke out, "no, no, I'm not a harem, I'm not a woman, I'm not a person, no…" But my struggling is feeble, my protests ineffectual.

Somehow my arms have ended up around his neck, though I have no recollection of putting them there, and I discover that I am clinging to him as though my very life depends on it. The rational part of my mind is screaming at me, demanding to know what in Lurline's name I think I'm doing. _You've gone stark raving mad_, it warns me matter-of-factly, _you must have if you honestly think he could ever want __you_.

But then he leans down and kisses me, his lips meeting mine searchingly, hungrily. I realize with considerable shock that the rational part of my mind has apparently, for once, been mistaken. As impossible as it seems, he wants this as much as I do.

This awareness effectively banishes my last vague shred of hesitation. I've lost all resistance, and I know there will be no going back. And strangely enough, I don't care. I return his kiss heatedly, letting my own desire respond to his. His tongue traces along the seam of my lips, asking for entrance, and I oblige him readily, somehow knowing what to do even though I have never kissed anyone like this before. I have never _wanted_ to kiss anyone like this before. But with him, I suddenly find myself wanting a lot of things that I've never wanted until this moment.

Our kisses quickly escalate in intensity, deepening and growing and consuming us both. The taste of him is exquisite, intoxicating, dangerously addicting – the more I get, the more I want. And I am eager to satisfy this newfound addiction. The feel of his mouth on mine has ignited something fierce and primal deep within me; it sends fire coursing through my veins with every rapid heartbeat, and I know that only he can quench the flames.

He pulls away slightly, forcing me to bite back a groan of disappointment. But then he carefully moves my hair aside and presses his lips softly to the sensitive place just behind my ear. My eyes drift closed at the sensation, a low moan escaping my throat. He trails slow, lingering kisses down my neck, pausing only long enough to undo the top button or two of my blouse so he can get at my collarbone and shoulder as well. Before long, I am limp in his arms, nearly incoherent, every limb weak with longing, and it occurs to me briefly how ironic it is that I, who have always prided myself on my strength, have been undone so easily and so completely by a few simple touches.

I am hardly conscious of how it happens, but the next thing I know, nearly all of our clothes have been discarded, scattered and forgotten on the floor. He looks at me, an unspoken question in his eyes, searching my face for any hint of uncertainty. The thought that even now he wants to put my comfort before his own desire makes me smile, and I answer his wordless inquiry by moving closer to him and pressing my lips eagerly to his once more. When we separate, I barely have time to reach out and turn down the lamp before he lifts me in his arms and carries me over to the bed. I hadn't noticed before, but in the soft glow filtering through the skylight, I can see that his chest bears the same stunning, mesmerizing pattern of tattoos as his face and neck. He sets me down gently and then stretches out beside me. We move together, blue diamonds on a green field.

Later we are lying curled up together beneath the sparse blanket, exhausted and utterly spent, but fulfilled in each other. He runs his fingers through my hair; I trace his blue diamonds idly, certain that I have never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful in all my life. And as I lay there cradled comfortably against him, his arms holding me close, feeling his heart beat beneath my fingers, I decide that I will not feel guilty for what has happened between us. He may be married, but right now, even if it is just for this moment, I can almost let myself believe that he is mine and mine alone. And that is enough. I lean up and kiss him softly, then cuddle closer to him with a contented sigh and let myself drift off to sleep.


End file.
